


Ship to Wreck

by binz, shiplizard



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: 19th Century, Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bush Can Take It, Hotspur Husbands, I'm on a boat!, M/M, Sirens, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5145635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mutiny and madness aren't the only troubles stalking the <em>Renown</em>. Luckily, Bush can take anything in stride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ship to Wreck

**Author's Note:**

> For the ~~three sentence~~ fic meme: Hornblower/Bush + AU Fantasy/Magic

Smith and Roberts have left him to the company of the siren; the whole ship knows that he is marked out, now. Before the storm they spoke to each other in halting phrases, wary of the captain. Now the captain is in his cabin, tended to by Clive for his injuries, and people speak a bit more freely, except with Bush. Him they speak to like a dead man walking.

He considers that it’s a rare privilege for a lieutenant to have so much of the berth to himself, and enjoys himself while he waits patiently for doom to fall. He considers that it may fall very literally, for the siren hasn’t got his sea legs yet.

Legs, yes. The long, serpentine tail has all but vanished into two of them, thin and pale without a trace of sunburn and only the faintest mottling to hint at their former design, and what an odd gawky creature the siren is. Having climbed without a trace of modesty out of the borrowed trousers he wears to run about the deck, he shows the flash of his scales at every pass, the strangely pert lift to his bottom, and it’d be improper but he is a creature from the fathomless deeps and so nobody pays it much mind.

He paces fitfully as far as he can in the Lieutenant’s berth, pitching miserably with the ship, and Lieutenant Bush sits on his cot and mends his clothing in swaying lamplight, while keeping one eye on his dangerous berthmate’s progress.

“I still intend to drown the lot of you,” the creature says, as he has every day for the past month, throwing shadows across Bush’s work as he passes back and forth. “I don’t need to sing to bring down your wretched ship.”

There are those of the crew who still go about their daily duties with oakum stuffed in their ears, warding off evil whenever they pass the scowling mer-creature. But Bush has long since abandoned the practice, and only nods obligingly.

“Of course you will,” he says indulgently. He has grown fond of their accidental passenger, perhaps in the way of a temperamental younger brother. He is perfectly sensible to the danger that he is in, because the poor tone deaf creature still has teeth like a shark and a face like an angel and probably could have the ship into a cliff if he wanted to despite his melodic failings.

So far he hasn’t. So far he bears the legs and even the clothes most days, pretending at being an officer with a grim sort of fascination, and with the loss of so many men in the storm that tossed him aboard he is more of a help there than he was chained down in the hold. Bush is cheerfully prepared to toss him bodily overboard himself the moment he is trouble and share the work with him as long as he isn’t, so shadow officer he remains.

The chains had rusted straight through, of course, when they’d first tried them. And then Buckland had ordered ropes, but the cold, clever fingers had gotten straight through the knots. And then he had demanded to know the knots and pestered the Lieutenants about their sextants and calculations, pouring over the charts and manipulating the parallel rulers with more grace than Bush had ever seen it done, and generally refused to go back overboard at the first opportunity nor even sing, and Sawyer is injured and mad and pretending nothing’s amiss, and Buckland is frightened and pretending nothing’s amiss, and Roberts, Smith and Bush are practical souls who’ll take an extra pair of hands when they’re offered.

“The moment I’ve learned all I wish to know, into the depths with every last one of you. I’ll eat your livers and share them with the sharks.”

“Of course you will.” Which, Bush knows from the ship’s gossip, means that the Renown is in deadly peril as soon as the siren has memorized Norie’s Seamanship and learned how to brew a cup of coffee underwater. “When I took to the navy I always thought I should like to be brought down by a siren, if it couldn’t be in battle. Very respectable.”

“Harumph.” And then Bush’s lap is nearly full of cool, gangling limbs. “What are you doing.”

“Mending.”

“Show me.”

Long, cool limbs snake around his shoulder and he imagines not for the first time these same hands dragging him breathless under the surface of the water, but for now the siren is wrapped around him as if Bush were an anchor and snarling intently at the mending with his sharp sharp teeth clenched. The thing clings like a limpet with no sense of decorum and propriety and some part of Bush’s pragmatic soul is delighted to be so imposed upon. It is all very dangerous and queer and he is perfectly content that this state of affairs should continue all the way until they reach whatever their destination should be.


End file.
